“Did I?” said Frances, with real surprise. “I thought it was because I was dull and stupid. So I tried to make friends with the others, but it never seemed the same. And now all my old chums have come back to me, and the new ones have stayed away. Oh, yes, Miss Carlyon, there is a bright side. Only, I didn’t know where to look for it.”
It was the evening of the third day before the one on which Elveley, and the major portion of its contents, were to be put up to auction. Mrs. Morland sat alone in her private sitting-room; a small and beautifully-furnished apartment where, during the last weeks, she had hidden herself from all eyes which she considered malicious or inquisitive. She knew she was not a popular woman; but she had preferred to mere popularity the more exclusive gratification which could be obtained by a determined and successful insistence on superiority. So long as she could be a leader, Mrs. Morland cared not whether her train followed her willingly or not. Thus, among her acquaintances, she had not tried to make a single friend.
The disaster which would have been heavy to most women was appalling to her. So far, she had refused to face facts, and had met her children’s timid protests either with indifference or anger. But that very afternoon, the boy and girl—coming hand in hand, for mutual encouragement—had made a fresh attempt to persuade her to listen to them; and though she had fairly driven them away by her harsh and bitter replies, she had not been able to forget the wretchedness in their young faces. It was true, of course, what they had said: in three days they would have no roof to cover their heads.
Austin, on leaving his mother, rushed to the stable, had his pony saddled, and galloped off to Rowdon. He had promised that his brother should know that day how matters stood; and it seemed to Austin that matters were at desperation-point.
Mrs. Morland remained alone. Round her were the evidences of her lost prosperity, and her eyes roved from one to another of her possessions, while her brain worked busily, and her long, slender fingers played with the pretty toys on a delicately-carved and inlaid table by her side. The children’s appeal had at last roused her, and consternation was taking the place of lethargy. Frances had implored her to speak: but after all, what could she say? What refuge was open to her, that pride could let her accept? More than one of her neighbours—the Rector first of them—had courteously offered her and her children a temporary home; but the idea of lingering on in Woodend, an object of careless pity to those whom she had compelled to a certain admiration, was hateful, even insupportable, to the suffering woman.
Her thoughts were still dwelling on what seemed to her an indignity impossible of endurance, when a servant brought a visitor to her door, and left him, at his own request, to enter unannounced.
“Who’s that?” demanded Mrs. Morland sharply, as the figure of young Jim Morland began to take shape in the distant shadows of the room.
Jim stepped forward, and with a word of greeting quietly proclaimed himself. He had been warned by Austin of the mood in which he was likely to find his stepmother; and the latent chivalry of his nature was now prepared to resist all inclinations towards impatience or resentment. In Jim’s simple creed a woman’s misfortune rendered her sacred.
“Please forgive me for venturing, Madam,” began the lad respectfully; “I’m feared you’ll not be over-pleased as I should come just now. I’m here because Austin told me of your trouble, and I wanted to see what I could do.”